


red smoke and tear gas

by enjolrage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death at some point, Developing Relationship, Far-Left Groups, French writer pissed off @ French government, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Content Warnings To Be Added, Other relationships - Freeform, Paris (City), Police Brutality, Politics, militantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-03-24 11:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13810680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrage/pseuds/enjolrage
Summary: Paris, 2018. In a political context becoming increasingly conservative and repressive, Les Ami.e.s de l'ABC try to see the people rise. Grantaire - nihilist by default - is, in spite of himself, caught up in a fight that he doesn't believe in.Translated from French - see notes.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [red smoke and tear gas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13810725) by [OrpheusCrowned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrpheusCrowned/pseuds/OrpheusCrowned). 



> 'I'd say that any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental, but nothing is less sure, really.  
> This work stems from a wish to link les Amis de l'ABC to the current situation in France and to what we experience as activists in modern-day Paris.'  
> \- Eosphoros
> 
> We're so happy to present you with this work ! It really does mean a whole lot to us. I deeply hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it.  
> A gigantic thank you to my English beta reader, lyres (lesamis on tumblr). Your suggestions and your help are highly cherished. We made the choice to keep a few french expressions as such - you will find explanations for them at the end of the chapter.

Beyond the red cloud of the smoke bombs arises gray gas, slowly advancing towards the cortège, when a voice screams. “Tear gas!”, and straight away, those whose face had stayed bare are covering their nose and mouth. The smell of vinegar-soaked scarves surpasses that of the tear gas and the first coughing fits are slowly making themselves heard.  
“Moving forward!”

And they’re moving forward. The pace is unbearably slow. The two red clouds framing the cortège are now falling as the gas thickens, and red mixes with gray in thick volutes.

“We’re hot - we’re hot - we’re hotter than teargas!”

The chants that had broken off are now back in full force, albeit muffled by pieces of fabric. Palestinian checks are flattened against the wet lips of the crowd, only set aside for a handful of seconds before being secured back into place and used to wipe at watering eyes.

“Does anyone have saline?” He doesn’t know who he’s addressing, but seconds later his hand closes around a small plastic bottle.

The agonizing cloud doesn’t clear, and the air is heavy with darkness until suddenly the murk is filled with light. The thunder of an explosion causes the mob to surge as one, before dispersing into a panic. Shadows run, urgent voices call out to each other, hands blindly search for the closest ones, “We can leave through this street!” “No, cops are blocking it, we have to stay!”. Enjolras’ strong voice repeats the final verdict. “We have to stay.”

Through these words, the panic momentarily subsides. The fleeing bodies turn to the slender figure holding the red flag, and some try to respond, and some try to reason. “If we stay, we’re going to become disposable shooting targets for the cops”. Enjolras shakes his head as his fingers tighten around the wooden staff. “They’re only going to break us off if we open our ranks. If they kettle us and charge, we’re done for. We can only tighten up, fall in again and move forward. We’re moving forward!”. This time, the shout is heard, and shared in both cries and hushed tones.

After a second explosion comes a third, all from different directions. Hands hold each others in vice-like grips, clammy with fear, and hushed, nervous laughs can be heard. A voice sings, then another. Soon enough, chanting resumes, three voices, five, fifteen, and the whole cortège is roaring in passion and pride. From the crowd escape incredulous chuckles, we’re really moving in, we’re really doing this, we’re really chanting?, and through their laughter, they are.

The protesters' eyes are met with an unexpected wave of bodies clad in black as it emerges from behind them. Combeferre looks back from his spot in the forefront and curses. He raises a hand, as if to address one of the newcomers. They are now submerging their ranks, their faces concealed with gas masks and hoods fastened tight against their brows. They mean trouble.

“Bahorel, what the fuck are you doing here? Why are you coming from behind us?”

“We had to get around you. We tried to go _sauvage_ , but the cops raced us. Don’t worry, we’re just passing through and retaking the frontside - it’ll be fine.”

Bahorel’s eyes hold an adrenaline-fueled fury; his hand holds something that resembles a brick, and Combeferre grimaces. “Just be careful, alright?” “You, too.”

Bahorel dives back into the black tide and lays his hand onto the arm of a stocky silhouette. The boy turns and meets Enjolras’ eyes - deep green eyes that the mask can't seem to dull.

Someone whistles and they're all running again, distancing the students cortège led by les Ami.e.s de l'ABC. The black silhouette of the green-eyed boy breaks into a sprint before coming to a sudden stop, his body extending into a perfect arc shape. A projectile leaves his hand and flies to the deserted area separating war-clad officers from the _cortège de tête_ \- the deafening sound of the explosion forestalls the burst of light coming from the Molotov cocktail touching ground.

When Combeferre turns to Enjolras, debating whether to keep moving or slow their pace, he finds his friend, gaze fixed on the stranger, silent words dying on his barely opened lips. It only lasts for an instant before Enjolras looks to him, and maybe Combeferre has imagined it. Enjolras surveys the crowd with an aggravated expression and shakes his head, "Where is the _S.O._? Where is our security squad?". He whips around, facing the cortège, and throws his arms in the air in a gesture that can only mean "Slow down!!". The crowd obeys.

 

 

Noises from lively table football games, the clash of glasses carelessly thrown onto the wooden bar, buoyant customers loudly rejoicing from an eventful protest, orders taken and completed, muted punk music crackling through old speakers: all meddle in the small space of the Saint-Sébastien's ground floor.

After the march, once the crowd had dispersed and the cortèges sauvages had disappeared into the narrow streets surrounding Nation, their feet had naturally taken them north, and they had found themselves in Belleville. The night is falling fast, typical of this time of year. The atmosphere is heavy with the smell of alcohol, but the perfume of Jehan Prouvaire's tea still stands out.

The poet keeps their eyes fixed on the cup warming their hands, and neither the loud bass, nor the ever-growing mob of punks revolving around them, seems to disturb their reflexion. Sometimes, they raise their head as if to join in to the debate animating their table. Mostly, they stay pensive, thoughts seemingly drowning out their surroundings.

Around them, the conversation is animated. Most of les Ami.e.s de l'ABC are accounted for: the demonstration is talked through, police behavior analyzed, accounts of brutality shared, syndicate strategies explored, the political calendar of the next few weeks reminded, and arrests documented - Bossuet and Bahorel are held in custody. It doesn't come as a surprise to anyone. Bossuet, on such days, always sports a handful of lawyers contact infos, written across his arm in black ink. His poor luck precedes him, but still he persists in following Bahorel into the _cortège de tête_. He has probably spent more days in custody than all of them combined - even Enjolras, who had the vague ambition of pretending to the title. But in this instant, one thing is more worrisome than the bars retaining their friends: nobody has heard from Joly.

"Maybe he was with them?"

"He marched as a street medic today."

"Maybe he escorted someone to the ER?"

Heads nod around the table. Combeferre's hypothesis makes sense - or is the idea simply comforting in their worried state of mind? Discreetly, Courfeyrac grasps his phone. "I'll try his cell again."

"Can you text Musichetta as well? She might know something we don't."

Jehan nods. Musichetta is a close friend, and they had been the one to introduce her to the group. As an active member of an afro-feminist collective, a barmaid and a sex worker, les Ami.e.s had immediately taken to her, despite her frequent conflicts with Enjolras. Their political quarrels are terrifying. The Angel of Revolution has found in her an equal - in eloquence, charism and knowledge - and les Ami.e.s are careful to steer clear of the titanic confrontations that their encounters spark. As for Enjolras and Musichetta, they take too much delight in these moments to simply decide to stay out of each other's path, to Bossuet and Joly's great relief. Needless to say, they would be sorry to see their friend and partner's bond being irreversibly ripped to shreds.

Awaiting for news of their friend, the informal meeting carries on, undisturbed by the encompassing roar of the bar. That is, until the door opens in a clash and reveals a lanky figure topped by a messy bun. Éponine raises her arm, and the room erupts in cheers and applause. After a few seconds, a boy appears behind her, beanie buried deep around his curls. His eyes are cast down as he steps on his cigarette butt.

Enjolras' jaw tightens, as it usually does when he sees her. He knows Éponine, knows her well. Uncontested queen of the cortège de tête, and member of a queer group whose name was better kept unsaid within a hundred meters of a precinct. She creeps closer to les Ami.e.s, deposes a kiss on the top of Jehan's head and her eyes search the room before accepting Courfeyrac's outstretched hand. "Marius' not here?"

"Not yet. Said he'd come by later, probably with Cosette," Courfeyrac offers. "'lright."

She offers the remainder of the table a gesture of her hand before taking off towards the foosball area. The regular athletes, in their Adidas sneakers, step aside and free her a space in a way that speaks of habit. The boy follows suit with an unfocused look, until he leans across the counter and gives a bise to the barman.

The curve of his body catches the eyes of a frowning Enjolras - the arc-shaped figure of the earlier march flashes in his mind, and it suddenly makes sense - before he turns back and joins Éponine. Perhaps he felt the gaze upon him, as his eyes dart across the room, and suddenly they meet Enjolras'. The boy's eyes are green, way too green in the twilight of the room - Enjolras' lips slightly part as if to say something. The boy's face sketches an amused smile in response, and he turns back to his game.

Enjolras stares at the boy's collar bones, visible through his sweat-shirt.

Damned if he's ever been anything other than rubbish at foosball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because some demonstration-related vocabulary seems to be untranslatable, the choice was made to keep it as such. Here are the explanations :
> 
> \- We have changed "Les Amis de l'ABC" into "Les Ami.e.s de l'ABC". The reason for this is, French is a very gendered language. In a mixed setting, no matter the number of women or men, the agreement will be masculine. For a while now, people and especially activists have been trying to think of a way to express gender neutrality in French, and have come up with what we call "écriture inclusive" ("inclusive writing"), through the use of dots. Inclusive writing is getting more and more common, and as most activist organizations now use it, we firmly believe that Les Ami.e.s would as well.
> 
> \- Cortège de tête, or ‘Black Bloc’. Literally “head cortège”, it represents autonomous groups (anti-fascists, anarchists…) usually dressed in black and masked to stay anonymous, who often lead demonstrations. They will use more radical methods than the rest of the cortège, i.e. destruction or molotov cocktails. They’re also called totos, short for “autonomous”. Not to be mistaken with tête de cortège, “head of cortège”, which represents the general area where protesters can march in front of the unions.
> 
> \- A manifestation or cortège sauvage is an unauthorized march led by radical protesters, which diverges from the path authorized by the prefecture during or after a protest. 
> 
> \- S.O. stands for Service d’Ordre and is a self-organized security squad by and for the protesters, individually organized by each organization, collective or syndicate present at a march.


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to our amazing betas, lesamis and brobrosky (tumblr) ! This work wouldn't be what it is without you.

The window is broken. It’ll need repairing.

The cold air slowly infiltrates the living room, whose obscurity is softened by the lamp posts scattered across the street. Paris is never truly in the dark.

Broad puddles of light from the street, white by day and yellow by night, effortlessly make up for the electrical blackout in this wide apartment situated in an alley crossing the Boulevard des Batignolles. Éponine put up light strings. Their glow is too visible from the outside, so they only light them up once the curtains are shut.

The cold breeze is as quick to enter the room as the cigarette smoke is slow to escape it. In a spot of light, Grantaire and Éponine are playing chess. He is comfortably sitting cross-legged, she is crouched, ready to scurry on. The pieces have seen better days, but both friends are hovering over the chess board with focused expressions.

They will occasionally move a piece as Montparnasse, sitting on a mattress on the floor, shuffles decks. His movements are hastened, then slowed, he lingers on a motion, and his slender fingers unfold the corner of a damaged King of Spades. He looks deeply, deeply bored. That said, he looks bored more often than not.

It’s one of the many vacant apartments of the capital, as precious as the treasures sheltered inside their walls, untouched and rich. Montparnasse had found it, Éponine had scouted the location and Grantaire had only taken advantage of their talents, including their unbounded generosity. (Though the two rogues will claim they only let Grantaire in for his guitar skills. Neither Montparnasse nor Éponine hold a reputation of “unbounded generosity”: at best, they are credited with the generosity of not murdering anyone. That is, for Éponine. Generosity, in Montparnasse, is hard to find.)

There is no heating but there is running water, and when the owners get word of their presence they will simply find another place. At the moment though, they lead a royal life. They gathered all the mattresses in the same room, both in an effort to keep warm and in the anticipation of having to flee urgently. When one or the other eventually brings somebody home, they are granted the honor of the bedroom.

But the window is broken, and with the cold air rise the sounds of the street. They had chosen a street that was neither too large nor too small, in an attempt to not be noticed. At this hour, the only sounds heard are the humming of a few cars and the characteristic whistle of a spray paint can from two floors below. Grantaire is the first to hear it: being accustomed to the undersides of bridges, it is a sound he is nothing if not familiar with.

On occasions, when he is certain that his painting site won't be the target of cops, he will take Gavroche with him. Gavroche has a talent with colors and a hand that is startlingly assured for a 12-year-old brat. He's a fearless kid and if Grantaire was completely honest with himself (which he rarely is), he might confess to worrying about the ease with which he climbs fences, goes through the holes of shattered windows, and too-quickly learns to pick locks (he suspects Montparnasse might have a hand in that).

But when he sees him trace in a perfectly assured gesture the four letters of "ACAB", he can't help but feel proud.

 

It might be Gavroche, then, and Grantaire tears himself from his game to walk towards the window. As he approaches, a voice starts shouting from the street, a voice he would recognize anywhere:

"Heyyyyy, R! Answer, you damn social-traitor!"

When Grantaire leans through the window, Bahorel is manifestly aiming at his floor with what looks like a handful of pebbles.

"Couldn't find something better than 'social-traitor'? You cheap joke of a Romeo!"

And in the same breath,

"O anarchist, anarchist! Wherefore art thou anarchist?

Deny thy movement and refuse thy name.

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a social-traitor.

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not an anarchist.

What’s an anarchist? It is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other word would smell as sweet.

So an anarchist would, were he not anarchist called,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Anarchist, doff thy name,

And for that name, which is no part of thee

Take all myself."

Downstairs, Bahorel seems radically unimpressed.

"Get your ass down here, Juliet, or you'll wake up the bourgeoisie."

The anarchist isn't wrong; Juliet closes the window. Behind him, Montparnasse's voice, heavy with sleep, questions him:

"Who's taking all thyself?" "Bahorel. I'm heading out. See you later."

 

He swiftly catches a beanie and a vest and rushes down the stairs to find Bahorel distractedly kicking at the wall.

"Alright, what do you want?", Grantaire offers.

"Are you finished with the poetry? I'm done with the fly posting. I thought you might be interested in some festivities with good company."

Grantaire grimaces. "By 'good company', do you mean that shitty collective of yours? Please, tell me, what in the world did I do to make you think that I would ever want to spend an evening with a bunch of idealists whose political opinions expired a century and a half ago! Please, tell me, so I never make that same mistake again."

"Well, first and foremost, you were absolutely eye-fucking one of our members two days ago at the Saint-Sébastien," Bahorel laughs. Grantaire's eyes spark with sudden interest.

"Oh, you might be onto something there. The blonde with the cheekbones, he with you?"

"He with us."

"I've never seen him in the _cortège de tête_ before." Bahorel shakes his head, "It's not like you come with us often... but no, he doesn't march with us."

"By God. A unionist?"

"Worse. A marxist."

"Shocking."

"Revolting. You coming?"

"Coming."

Bahorel's smile is insufferable.

  
  


Grantaire's vision is spinning, though unfortunately not due to the sad cup of beer sitting in front of him. On the contrary - he is painfully aware of the absence of alcohol in his veins, and he searches the room for a bottle. Wine will make this whole situation a lot more tolerable. The beer is bad, and in no way strong enough to help him make it through the night.

Because the blonde with the cheekbones is indeed here, as well as the remainder of his collective. He recognizes one face only: Joly, a frail boy whom he remembers as a street medic he’s crossed paths with a few times.

The blonde with the cheekbones, however, keeps attracting his gaze.

In the basement of this small Montreuil house, the guests pile up on shabby sofas, most likely recovered from bulky waste on the street - Grantaire's most beloved furniture retailer. Some funfair-won fairy lights decorate the walls. They envelop the darkened room in a relaxing silkiness - or what would be a relaxing silkiness, if boisterous shouts didn't keep breaking the background of conversations again and again.

"The _Général de Gaulle_? What the f-"

A semblance of hurried excuses follows the consequent explosion - and no less than two people are needed to appease the vengeful fury of the source of the commotion. That voice unmistakably belongs to the blonde with the cheekbones, whose name he deduces from fragments of conversations is Enjolras.

Enjolras, he observes, seems to hold high expectations for his conversation partners, has a disdain for being interrupted (especially on the subject of post-war Resistance), doesn't consume alcohol, is evidently the heir of Cicero, Achilles or both perhaps, and is way, _way_ too attractive. Grantaire vaguely wonders if the others, as he does, have to mentally prepare before daring to lay eyes on the man. He also wonders why his name rings familiar.

Bahorel slouches down on the couch next to him, holding a very welcome bottle of vodka.

"So, there you go. This is Enjolras. You get it now ?"

Grantaire squints. What is he supposed to get? Had they founded a sect and appointed - democratically elected, probably on a general consensus, as even a vote would seem an authoritarian measure to these kinds of people - as the next messiah? Is he actually a reincarnation of the great god Ra?

Thing is, he actually gets it.


	3. iii.

Bossuet has been looking pensive for a while before he speaks up, barging into an animated discussion, its topic seemingly being that of Courfeyrac’s latest one-night stand:

"About Wednesday’s action, how about we print stickers as well?"

And for the fourth time since he joined them that night, Grantaire sees les Ami.e.s sigh in unison. This time, Feuilly answers him in a tone more aggressive than Grantaire believes is necessary. "Bossuet, we talked about this. This isn’t a meeting."

"Alright. I’ll just need to write that down."

 _"If you so wish_ , but we’ll talk about it later. Here clearly isn’t the place."

Combeferre turns to Grantaire with a sorry smile. "Sorry, I promise, we’ll stop now."

"No worry, I mean, with this and the five previous times, at least you’re giving me substance for my report!" And after a moment, "Oh God, look at the time... I’m expected back to my precinct now…" Grantaire’s self-satisfactory laugh is answered with a tight smile on Combeferre’s part. "You can mock, but we know how to spot cops."

"Excuse you! I might joke about being an infiltrated cop only to convince you that I’m not an infiltrated cop, but really I am an infiltrated cop!"

Grantaire’s phone vibrates and his smile spreads. "Speak of the devil…"

Combeferre simply looks on.

During the following half hour, Grantaire finds amusement in the worried looks that Combeferre throws at him, though he may simply be questioning his sense of humour. Fact is, nobody mentions anymore upcoming actions, and Grantaire is almost disappointed - he could have taken his notepad out.

 

They’ve been in this café of the _rue Saint-Denis_ for the better part of an hour. It was specifically chosen for the group’s moments of relaxation, as Combeferre took great care of explaining, because it is not the café that usually welcomes their meetings: traditionally, a room in the basement of the Musain, _rue Cujas_ , hosts their reunions. Grantaire doesn’t really hang around the Sorbonne: his own university is in Cergy. He simply doesn’t have the means to study in the historical center of this infamous Parisian university: the _rue Cujas_ , parallel to the _place de la Sorbonne_ , is therefore unfamiliar to him. So is the Musain and its apparently wonderful hot chocolates, crowned with whipped cream, red fruit coulis, and - height of obscenity - a freshly-picked raspberry.

At the sight of Enjolras’ scrunched up nose, it would seem that he would view this sugary debauchery in their designated establishment as a regrettable influence of the bourgeois state. Enjolras looks like he exclusively feeds on strong coffee - and that is precisely what he is drinking at the moment. It delights Grantaire, more so than he could say, and more so than he could explain.

But the joke burns out. They’ve been here for an hour, but Bahorel still hasn't arrived. Grantaire has never met les Ami.e.s before without him. The anarchist has an assigned role in this group; he is almost certain that Jehan has their sights on him, as depicted by the delicate red hue that paints their cheeks at the slightest of his attentions. His opinions are carefully listened to and his humor greatly appreciated. He is a bon vivant, more direct than Grantaire, more laid back as well. For this reason, Grantaire’s previous meetings with les Ami.e.s had been easy. Their senses of humor complete each other and, helped by Bahorel’s comforting presence - always here to help him out of conversations that become too uncomfortable - he has until now felt strangely comfortable amongst les Ami.e.s.

Fact is, he still isn’t here. Grantaire starts to panic. It’s one thing mocking Combeferre’s excessive caution or commenting on Courfeyrac’s sex life, but listening to Feuilly and Enjolras debate on the best way of uniting the queer and the workers movements? He feels himself doze off simply hearing them from afar.

Because Bahorel was right - they are marxist. Terribly marxist. They have read things, learnt things, thought things, analyzed things, and through reading and learning and thinking and analyzing, the fatality is, you end up thinking you have things to say. Les Ami.e.s de l’ABC, to Grantaire’s great dismay, are people who think they have things to say. Worse: they think they are right. Worse, even: they think they’re going to make a change.

Feuilly and Enjolras are conversing in hushed voices, leaning towards each other, and they are soon joined by Combeferre. Grantaire feels his unease grow in his stomach, a knot of « you’ve got no business being here » thriving inside him. The three activists have closed expressions and are focused on their conversation - now probably centered on the topic of saving the world. Grantaire throws more and more glances at his phone.

 

It is Courfeyrac who seems to take pity on him. He gets up and comes to sit next to him, in Combeferre’s abandoned seat, and addresses him with a large smile.

"So, Grantaire. How did you learn about our little meetings?"

He’s sure that he’s already talked about this, probably on the first night, the one Bahorel appeared in front of his building. But Grantaire is so grateful for the distraction that he doesn’t mind repeating himself.

Courfeyrac has this surprising way of looking at you, all in thick eyebrows and blinding smiles. This guy could sell you an entire shop of vacuum cleaners, and you would be the one to thank him. Fortunately, by joining les Ami.e.s, he divested the Great Capital of a ferociously efficient public relations officer.

And he, too, is big. Slightly bigger than Grantaire, even. But in a different way - the way he holds himself, the way he moves differs from Grantaire’s. In one word or a hundred, he feels at ease. Grantaire, whatever his weight, has always felt like he took up too much space. No intensive practice of a sport of has ever changed that fact. When he developed a liking for dance and fencing, his relation to his body and to others slowly, arduously evolved. But he never got rid of the shit idea that he was wasting space.

Thus, a hint of envy melds into the trust and the sympathy he instinctively feels, as everyone does, towards Courfeyrac.

As he once again recounts the episode of Bahorel under his balcony, the squat and the bourgeois he counts as neighbors, Grantaire can’t help but throw glances at the other three. They are still talking, their voices lowered as to not disturb the more joyful spirit of the rest of the group. They seem serious, focused and Enjolras - Enjolras even more so. His brows are furrowed and his lips are tightly closed when he isn’t speaking. His hands lie on his lap, his long and slim fingers knead themselves nervously. When he speaks, his face comes alive and the might he puts into expressing each of his ideas, and the grace he involuntarily exhales, make him look like he’s looming above the group of activists, make him look like an angel who turned against his god, make him look like -

"Grantaire."

Courfeyrac’s smile is more tender and discreet than before, and Grantaire realizes that he has stopped talking for several seconds. Several long seconds.

His first instinct is to straighten his posture and detach his eyes from Enjolras. And because he has to prepare himself before even laying eyes on him, looking away is - by the effect of physical science - a wrench.

"Sorry, I was thinking about-"

"Don’t worry about it, » Courfeyrac interrupts him. He seems understanding. Less ironic and more discreet than earlier. « He always has this effect on people, at first."

"At first?"

"Then you learn to know him, and he reverts back into a human. I mean, it’s a useful asset media-wise, but he doesn’t really appreciate us using him for that."

His whimsical pout puts a smile on Grantaire’s face.

"What?! Can’t we use people as a marketing argument for the overthrowing of the State anymore?"

Courfeyrac starts laughing, and his eyes linger on him. It is rare, finding people with whom you just match. He would be hard-pressed to determine whether the student has this effect on everyone or if he just made a friend. If all of les Ami.e.s have Courfeyrac’s charm and Enjolras’ charisma, the dawn of communism is only a matter of time.

 

When a text from Bahorel warns him that he won’t be able to make it, the time reads 10:30pm. Grantaire has switched from coffee to alcohol a while ago, and he is comparing the list of Courfeyrac’s exes with his own. As it turns out, they have two in common (and maybe a third, but they can’t seem to confirm it). He raises his head and is reminded of his condition of stranger in the group. He told himself that if Bahorel couldn’t make it, he would most likely leave. But now, Jehan, Joly and Bossuet have joined in on the conversation, and a girl called Musichetta lets out loud laughs with every anecdote shared, and sometimes Combeferre, from the spot where he is plotting with Enjolras and Feuilly, sends them sorry looks that are still full of affection - and Grantaire tells himself that, maybe, just this once, he can stay.

 


	4. iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small change has been made in the previous chapters: we have changed "Les Amis de l'ABC" into "Les Ami.e.s de l'ABC". The reason for this is, French is a very gendered language. In a mixed setting, no matter the number of women or men, the agreement will be masculine. For a while now, people and especially activists have been trying to think of a way to express gender neutrality in French, and have come up with what we call "écriture inclusive" ("inclusive writing"), through the use of dots. Inclusive writing is getting more and more common, and as most activist organizations now use it, we firmly believe that Les Ami.e.s would as well.
> 
> As always, a thousand thanks to @lesamis, our wonderful, wonderful beta reader.

" _Bahorel hasn't arrived yet, I feel like each toad-like word that escapes my mouth is nothing but preposterous, and the blonde with the cheekbones will look down on me every now and then. H E L P   M E._ "

Éponine smiles to herself and hastily answers, before a new notification makes her phone vibrate. Montparnasse.

" _Oh? Why?_ "

She hesitates for a moment, staring at her screen and trying to think of the best way to answer that. She impulsively sent the news to her roommate as soon as she slammed the door of the movie theater she works - worked - as an usherette at. Now, explaining it by text seems more laborious than anticipated. She should be used to it by now. Finally, she taps away, correcting herself several times:

" _It wasn't just insults this time around, my boss threatened me as well._ "

She deletes the details she has started to add - Montparnasse doesn't need to know precisely what he said that convinced her to resign. Or what he did. Anyway, the squat is only a few meters away, and he will see for himself soon enough. But he will worry, and she can't afford that. Quickly, she sends a second message:

" _I was going to leave sooner or later anyway, I just couldn't deal with this transphobic fuck anymore._ "

She hasn't put her phone back in her pocket for two minutes before a long, familiar silhouette appears before her. Montparnasse, it seems, has just come out of their building. Taking her in, a smile forms on his face. Éponine readjusts her hood - with some luck, he won't notice the bruise on her forehead. For a few seconds, she thinks his gaze stops on it, but he doesn't say anything.

"So you finally resigned?"

"Finally. It's alright. Still got that other job on the side," Éponine shrugs.

"Well. Whatever. You'll excuse me but I have an errand to run." And after a second, "Oh, and Gavroche is back."

"That soon?"

Somehow, she is relieved that Montparnasse didn't broach the subject, and more relieved even that he didn't try to inflict a show of compassion on her, especially in public. Although it's clearly not Montparnasse's type.

Facing the building's door, she drums the code. Habit takes her up the back stairs. The flat was vacant for over seven years when they moved in; a space terribly large, and terribly empty. Not many things were added, but there are mattresses, a tv that doesn't work, and they even have warm water. Atop their never-unpacked belongings, plaster mouldings allow them something to contemplate at night.

Voices come from the living room, and when she enters, a small tousled head perks up from the couch. Gavroche's smile, scrunched up nose and freckles, barely visible on his dark skin, spreads to his sister's lips.

"Already back with us?"

With exaggerated displeasure, he pauses the episode of Naruto he was watching. "When I arrived there, Antoinette told me they'd called the coppers."

Police. Éponine's arms instinctively tighten around the kid's frame. "I just went to see my friends. I wasn't gonna stay. Don't care who they call. I'm not going back," he continues.

He raises his head, brashly, and she can't help her smile. He's not scared. Gavroche has seen nasty things in his short life, but he doesn't know how to successfully keep the emotions out of his eyes yet. Éponine, dragged into her parents' shitty schemes, has never had to join one a center - a social children's home, 'maison d'enfants à caractère social', they're called, MECS for those in the know. Gavroche, _because_ of those shitty schemes, has. She knows most of them are good, that the kids who live there are very happy; Gavroche just hasn't had the privilege of being sent to one of them. The things he's told her... She, too, would rather he stay away from that place. That being said, she didn't know they would call the cops. All this, simply because he wanted to come and live with her for a few days... But they'll get through it. The police won't come near Gavroche.

She plants a kiss on his head. "Ok. We'll just stay away from the cops for a while, 'lright? We're good at that. It'll be fun, you'll see. And we'll sort things out with the center. You won't have to go back. Promise."

He nods against her cheek and, after a few seconds of silence, discreetly hits "play" again. Little fucker.

 

 

The sound of the door opening wakes her from her slumber. Gavroche is softly snoring, his head resting on her shoulder. The brat fell asleep after two episodes. The blanket covering them has fallen to the floor, but she stays immobile as to not wake him up. It's dark outside, and the golden halos of the lampposts gleam through the tree branches like lacework. In the next room, Montparnasse's Brogues tap against the floor.

Bit too leisurely. He's dragging his feet - he doesn't usually walk this way. Is it really him? Éponine turns her head towards the open door with a sudden interest. It has to be him; the soles of his freaking overpriced shoes against the wooden floor usually make this kind of pretentious noise. With all the care in the world, she strays from Gavroche, gently laying him down on the couch and readjusting the blanket on him. The kid's eyelashes draw long shadows on his cheeks, and freed from his vivacity, his radiant laughs and his furious races, he looks just what he is: a sleeping child.

There is no more noise. Éponine straightens herself and exits the living room on her bare feet, walking blindly through the corridor. A ray of light filters under the closed door of the kitchen. With a brief gesture, she pushes it open - and sees Montparnasse, sitting on a chair, pouring himself wine in a plastic cup. His lip is split open, and the handkerchief he usually wears in his vest pocket is stained with blood. He still sends a smile her way as she enters the room. "The hell happened to you?"

"I visited our friend from the movie theater." His tone is ferocious and incontestably satisfied.

"What?"

"We had a nice chat, cinephile to cinephile. Unfortunately, some... artistic disagreements arose."

He shows his damaged mouth with a sorry expression. His large smile tears the flesh open deeper than it already is. He grimaces and goes back to dabbing at his bloody lip with his tissue, before carefully placing it back on his chest. Éponine's eyes go so far back that she notices the small clumps of mascara on her eyelashes. "Fucking hell, Montparnasse? You shouldn't have done that."

"That was for my personal pleasure."

"Of course. I'm sure you shared a cuppa, after that?"

"No, Monsieur is a gourmet; he served me some fine dish of pig."

"He called the cops, seriously?"

He only shrugs, his expression arrogant. All of a sudden, she hates him. Montparnasse is a poseur who's never really had to choose between the fantasy of aristocracy and that of the 'tough guy'. A Saint-Laurent ambassador who loves nothing more than feeling bones break under his fingers, a dealer who loves nothing more than tailor-made suits. A dandy with a ripped lip, who drinks stolen wine in a plastic cup.

And for whom - for her. She is certain that altruism had little to do with it, that the shiver of ultraviolence has brought him there, more than the throbbing of a kind heart. Probably.

But that's not his place.

"He was mine," she whispers. Even her murmur is furious. "It was up to me, to decide whether I wanted revenge or not. I still have the choice of anger."

He looks at her with wide eyes for a few seconds, mute, thoughts unreadable behind the gray of his irises. Again, he seems to stop his gaze on the bump on her head - there's no hiding it, this time - then finally has the decency to look down.

Her fist loosens up and as her nails stop digging into her palm, the ache spreads into her hand.

"Fucking dick," she simply concludes. There are more urgent matters, she knows that. They need to talk about Gavroche.


End file.
